


the one to light the way

by shineyma



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Reunions, Sansa Stark Needs a Hug, Sansa Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Even up to the moment when Sansa and her rescuers reached the army’s camp, she felt as though she must be dreaming.[Or: Sansa Stark gets a hug or two. Or twenty.]
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Robb Stark & Sansa Stark
Comments: 36
Kudos: 278





	the one to light the way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SafelyCapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/gifts).



> In addition to being my WEEK EIGHTEEN fic (ohmygosh how), this is also a **shamefully** belated Christmas/birthday present for the lovely and spectacular Mir, who is my favorite Mir of all the Mirs (EVEN BOROMIR IS NOT SUPERIOR). With serious apologies for how long it took - it wanted SO BADLY to have a plot when all I wanted was Sansa getting the love she deserves. (We compromised.) I hope you enjoy, hon! <3
> 
> As for the rest of you, thank you for reading and please be gentle if you review! <3

Even up to the moment when Sansa and her rescuers reached the army’s camp, she felt as though she must be dreaming. The wind on her face, the courtesy and kindness of her rescuers, the prospect of family and home before her—surely those gifts could only be the work of her sleeping mind.

The discomfort of the journey didn’t convince her otherwise, nor the pain of bruises old and new. The greeting from stunned sentries who called her _Princess_ and sent a runner to find the king, the familiar banners flying above the gathered tents (Umber, Bolton, Manderly, _Stark_ ), and the pride of the Riverlander knights who had spirited her out of King’s Landing could all be her own imagination.

It was a dream, she was sure. It must be.

Then a distant howl came from her left. The wolf ( _direwolf_ , she thought, breath caught in her throat, _Grey Wind_ ) sounded much too far away to be seen, but some deep longing in her heart pulled her eyes in that direction nonetheless.

And there, she found Jon Snow.

The whole camp might have disappeared when their eyes met. The whole _world_ might have. For a long moment, she could only stare, held in place by familiar grey eyes and her own racing heart.

There was something like a _click_ , like something sliding into place, and suddenly Sansa knew, Sansa _believed_ —it was real. She had escaped King’s Landing, escaped Joffrey and Cersei. She had escaped her captivity and one of her brothers was right in front of her.

“Jon,” she said—sobbed, truly—and then she was in his arms.

Whether she fell from her horse, was helped off of it, or simply leapt from its back, she couldn’t say and didn’t care. All that mattered was Jon and how he clung to her just as tightly as she did to him, how he whispered her name into her hair and lifted her right off her feet, as happy to see her as if they’d always been close—as though she’d always loved him the way she ought.

The reminder that she _hadn’t_ stung at her heart like the lash of a Kingsguard’s sword.

“I’m so sorry,” she said into his shoulder.

“Sorry?” Jon echoed. Somehow, he managed to hold her even closer. “What could _you_ possibly have to be sorry for?”

The way he said it—as though someone else had something to be sorry for—nearly distracted her. Nearly.

“For how I treated you.” Her fingers curled in the fur of his cloak of their own accord, dreading the possibility he might shove her away at the mention. “You’re my _brother_ and I’ve been absolutely horrid to you, and—”

She had more to say, but it died in her throat unspoken as he set her down. For a moment, she feared he truly was about to shove her away; instead, he only pulled back so far as he must to meet her eyes. He appeared strangely confused.

“Sansa,” he said, searching her face, “you don’t…?”

“What?” she asked. “Don’t what?”

He hesitated, and then shook his head.

“Don’t owe me any apology,” he said, though somehow she had the sense he’d been about to say something quite different. “We were children, and you weren’t half so cruel as you think. It’s forgotten.”

Part of her melted in relief. The rest knew she didn’t deserve such easy forgiveness.

“No,” she said, “Jon—”

“I’ll hear no more of it,” he said firmly, and her breath caught. “What?”

“You sound like Father,” she said honestly.

Something passed over his face, something she couldn’t read at all—but then, they’d never been close. It was grief, most likely; the gods knew how often her own heart traveled that path at the simplest reminder.

In truth, it threatened to do so that very moment; Sansa deliberately turned her mind to other matters.

“But how are you here?” she asked, realizing only as she did so that he was in entirely the wrong part of Westeros. “The Wall—”

He shook his head. “Word of Father’s death reached us before I could take my vows. I knew my place was at Robb’s side, so I left.”

She’d taken some small comfort during her time in King’s Landing to know that at least one of her brothers was far out of the Lannisters’ reach, settled in as part of the Night’s Watch as she thought he was. It was oddly unsettling to know she’d been wrong all this time.

Still, she was relieved.

“I’m—” _I’m glad_ , she meant to say, but she was interrupted when an impact to her side nearly knocked her right off her feet. It knocked the breath out of her well enough, at least—or perhaps that was the sight of the massive direwolf nuzzling every bit of her he could reach.

“Grey Wind,” she breathed, and fell to her knees. “ _Oh_ —”

She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his fur, overcome. There was a hollow place inside of her, some part of her that had been carved out when Lady died, and though it was still far from full, having a direwolf before her filled some part of the emptiness.

Grey Wind nosed at her hair, but otherwise remained still, happily accepting the embrace. It was unbelievable how large he’d grown; he was still only a pup when she left Winterfell, and now—

But Grey Wind was _Robb’s_ direwolf. Suddenly fearful, she lifted her head to look at Jon.

“Ghost?” she asked, and was relieved at his slight smile.

“Out hunting,” he said. “He’ll be back soon.”

Grey Wind nudged her shoulder, drawing her attention back, and she scratched behind his ears the way Lady had always loved.

“Look at you,” she said, and sat back on her heels. She ignored the twinge of pain it sent up her spine, where soreness lingered. “You’re so _big_.”

His head tipped sideways.

“They’re terrified of you in King’s Landing,” she confided. “They tell stories about Robb and the fearsome direwolf he rides into battle. I think the stories gave some of the squires nightmares.”

Grey Wind appeared pleased.

She might have continued, or might simply have buried her face in his fur once more, but his attention shifted over her shoulder. Curious, she twisted to follow his gaze to—

—to _Arya_. Arya dressed like a man, from her leathers to her absurdly short hair to the sword belted at her waist. There was a fairly gruesome half-healed cut along the side of her face that would assuredly scar and a smaller one across her nose that might not.

She’d never looked less a lady. She was still the most beautiful thing Sansa had ever seen.

“Seven hells, you’re filthy,” Arya said, looking Sansa up and down. “I didn’t even know you could _get_ dirty. How’d you get here, through a _sewer_?”

As Sansa gaped, her little sister—her little sister! Alive!—turned to wave an imperious hand at a passing soldier.

“Oi, you,” she said. “Have a bath prepared for my sister, would you?”

How the soldier—whose duties most likely did not include preparing baths—reacted to such a command, Sansa didn’t see. She was far too busy scrambling to her feet and throwing herself at Arya.

“Arya,” she gasped, peppering her face with kisses, “Arya—you’re here, you’re _alive_ , gods, I was so afraid—”

She expected Arya to squirm away—and half-expected to be shoved to the ground—at any moment, as Arya was never one to tolerate this sort of display, but her little sister bore the treatment with surprisingly good grace. After a long moment of stillness, she even hugged her back.

“’Course I’m alive,” she said, quite gruffly for such a little girl. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Why wouldn’t you—” Sansa’s laugh was perhaps a touch hysterical, because it prompted Jon to rest a hand on her back. “You _disappeared_! Joffrey had the white cloaks and the gold cloaks searching for _ages_ ; when they didn’t find you, I thought—I feared—”

This, for some reason, had Arya pulling away. She regarded Sansa with a frown, appearing just as confused by Sansa’s utterly reasonable fears as Jon was by her very necessary apology.

Oh. Of course. Jon wasn’t the only one she owed an apology.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What I said—”

Arya’s frown deepened. “Why are you apologizing?”

Her blank confusion left Sansa wrong-footed. Jon had dismissed the apology, but he had at least acknowledged it first.

“I,” she said, and gathered herself. “How I treated you—it was awful. And you were right all along about Joffrey, so…”

She trailed off uncertainly as Arya’s attention shifted from her to Jon and back again.

“What?” she asked. Grey Wind, perhaps in response to her unease, nudged her again. She let her hand fall to his head, drawing comfort from his warmth. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Never mind,” Arya said, somewhat abruptly. “I’m sorry, too.”

_Was this what Jon and Arya felt like?_ Sansa thought, even as she scrambled for an explanation. It would make sense of the odd looks they’d given her, if they felt this same sort of stunned confusion in the face of her own apologies.

What could _Arya_ have to apologize for? It was Sansa who’d blamed her for things that were none of her fault, who had shouted at her, who had reacted to her attempts at comfort with anger and cruelty. It was Sansa who had been so very, very wrong about Joffrey and the Queen.

“Sorry?” she asked, utterly lost. “For _what_?”

Arya’s eyes—their Father’s eyes—were grave, and far older than such a little girl’s ought to be.

“For leaving without you,” she said.

At that, Sansa had to hug her again.

“Arya,” she said, and then once more, simply for the pleasure of being _able_ to after so long without her, “Arya, I was surrounded by guards. They never let me out of their sight. There was nothing you could have done.”

Arya didn’t hesitate to return her hug that time. She squeezed her hard enough to chase the breath from Sansa’s lungs, in a desperate, emotional way quite unlike her. It brought tears to Sansa’s eyes—and not only at the pain it sparked from her bruises.

“I missed you,” she breathed into her little sister’s hair, and Arya held her all the tighter.

A shout and running footsteps from behind them broke them apart, and Sansa turned just in time to meet Robb’s already open arms.

“Robb,” she gasped, at the same moment he said, “ _Sansa._ ”

Her tears welled up and over; with a sob, she buried her face in his shoulder (he was so much _taller_ than he’d been when she left him at Winterfell) and clutched desperately at his armor. Even the hilt of his sword, belted at his waist and pressing unpleasantly into her middle, couldn’t ruin the moment.

“Sansa,” Robb said again, and she felt his lips press to her hair in a desperate kiss. “I’m sorry.”

Behind her, Arya and Jon huffed identical breaths of laughter; if she weren’t still overwhelmed by tears, she might have joined them. It _was_ oddly amusing, in a dark sort of way: in all the times she dared to dream of reuniting with her siblings, she had never imagined it would involve so many apologies.

“For _what_?” she asked, lost once more. “Robb, you _saved_ me—”

“I wanted to do it myself,” he interrupted. “I meant to march on King’s Landing and rescue you personally. Sending my knights—”

He stopped. He had pulled back to regard her as he spoke, and as his eyes caught on the nearly-healed cut at her eyebrow, his face darkened.

“What happened?” he demanded. “Who did this?”

It took less effort than Sansa would have expected to stop herself cringing. She had learned, and learned well, to fear the anger of men and kings. But this was _Robb_ and king or not, she couldn’t fear him. She refused.

Still, his anger was fierce. For a moment, she couldn’t find her voice.

Grey Wind pressed against her side, and that helped.

“There was a riot,” she said. “It’s how—how Ser Desmond and Ser Robard got me out. I was separated from Joffrey and his guards, but some men…” She stopped, preferring not to remember. “Your knights arrived just in time. Please don’t apologize.”

Robb cupped her chin, tilting her face just so. “Is this it?”

She hesitated. Thanks to his men’s timely arrival, the cut he studied with such anger was the only injury she took in the riot. It was not, however, her only injury. Should she disclose the rest, she wondered?

Her hesitation, it seemed, spoke for itself. Robb’s face darkened yet further, and from the corner of her eye she caught Arya and Jon moving closer.

“Sansa?” Jon asked.

She had to step back, out of Robb’s reach. Though she refused to fear him—or Jon or Arya—remembered panic was rising in her chest, threatening her calm. If she was going to speak, she couldn’t do it with any man, no matter how beloved, so close.

“Joffrey,” she said, and nearly choked on it. “He…when…”

How could she tell them? The memory was too near—the cold stone of the Great Hall’s floor, the leering eyes of the court, the cold air on her back when her dress was ripped open—

Arya’s hand slipped into hers, and Sansa, realizing she’d closed them, opened her eyes.

“He hurt you?” Jon asked quietly.

She nearly laughed. “The Queen told him a king must never strike his lady. He had the Kingsguard do it for him.”

Arya took in a sharp breath. Jon turned away. Robb cursed viciously.

It was too much. They were in the middle of the camp, and though she’d barely noticed before, now she felt horridly exposed. All the eyes of Robb’s army were upon them, watching the reunion.

Only that first beating had been so public—Lord Tyrion had put a stop to that much—but though those particular bruises had faded, the memory’s grip was strong. She hated having eyes on her at any moment, let alone one so fraught as this.

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking another step away from them. Her hand ached from how tightly she was holding Arya’s, but she couldn’t seem to loosen her grip. “I can’t—”

Grey Wind wove around and behind her, stopping her retreat; in the same breath, Robb stepped forward.

“It’s all right,” he said, face relaxed and voice even. “You don’t have to tell us.” The effort his calm took was obvious in the way he paused, how he struggled to keep from frightening her. (But she refused to be frightened, she _refused_ —) “Do you need a maester?”

“No.” Grey Wind was warm against her back, reassuring even as he prevented her from fleeing. “No. I’m only bruised.”

“You’re sure?” Jon asked.

Sansa nodded.

“Then we’ll let it be,” Robb said, and his tone made it an order.

An order Arya apparently disliked. “Robb!”

“No, Arya,” he said, quite sternly. “When Sansa’s ready to tell us more, we will of course listen. For now,” his gaze moved to her and softened, “what matters is that you’re well.”

“I am,” she promised.

“Good,” he said, and extended a hand. “In that case, may I have another hug?”

Now his tone was comically pleading—he sounded like baby Rickon, begging for another story before bedtime. The memory warmed her as much as the request, and so she accepted his hand and let him pull her back into another hug.

This time, Arya followed, and Jon after her, so the four of them were tangled in an embrace—huddled together like children hiding from a storm. Like Robb’s tone, it served to remind her of better days, of the home she’d been so long away from. With their arms about her and Grey Wind’s bulk at her back, protecting her from the gaze of those who would watch, she _couldn’t_ be afraid.

And she didn’t need to be, in any case. She was safe now, away from King’s Landing and everyone in it. Sometime soon, she may even see Winterfell again, and Mother, Bran, and Rickon with it. There was nothing to fear.

As though he could hear her very thoughts, Jon spoke. “No one will ever touch you again, Sansa. I swear it.”

“I’ll run them through,” Arya piped up in agreement. “They’ll never get near you.”

“They’ll never have the chance,” Robb agreed, and kissed her hair. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

Laughing even as she wept, Sansa clung to her siblings and let their words reassure her.

They stood like that for a very long time.

+++

In the hour of ghosts, Arya woke.

For a moment she lay where she was, listening to her sister’s breathing. Sansa was warm beside her, curled into her and clinging as desperately as she had when awake. It took effort to extract herself from her hold—but Arya was used to doing difficult things. After a few breaths, she rolled out of bed.

She dressed swiftly, belting Needle around her waist even as she shoved her feet into her boots. As she did, Ghost and Grey Wind lifted their heads from where they lay curled together before the entrance to the tent.

“Protect Sansa,” she ordered quietly—and likely unnecessarily. The distance between the bed and the tent flap was the farthest the direwolves had been from Sansa since her arrival that morning.

Still, it made her feel better to say it, and better yet to see Ghost get up and pad over to the cot, where he leapt up to take her place. Sansa curled into him and didn’t wake.

“Good,” she said, and left.

The camp was silent as she picked her way through it. Guards watched her passing, but didn’t try to stop her. They’d become accustomed to her nightly wanderings.

Robb and Jon were already waiting for her when she reached the meeting spot. The brook marked the edge of the camp, so there were plenty of guards about, but the noise of the water was enough to disguise their voices, as long as they spoke lowly.

Not that they spoke at all, at first. For several moments they stood in silence, as Arya—at least—contemplated the latest snag in their plans.

Finally, Jon said, “She doesn’t remember.”

“No,” Robb agreed, and Arya nodded.

She’d known from the moment Sansa greeted her with shock that her sister didn’t share the memories of the future she, Robb, and Jon did. The question was what to do about it.

Well, and, “Why doesn’t she?”

“I don’t know,” Robb said, crossing his arms. “Why _do_ we?”

Jon groaned in a way that had become shorthand for _don’t start that again_. They’d been in so many circles about their memories of the future—how accurate they might be, why they hadn’t gotten them in time to save Father, why Mother had them but Bran and Rickon didn’t, why any of them had them at all—that they didn’t truly need to speak their parts anymore.

“Fine,” Arya said. Not like she wanted to waste time revisiting it anyway. “But what do we do? We were expecting Sansa the Lady of Winterfell, not…”

Not Joffrey’s traumatized betrothed, she couldn’t bring herself to say. It had unsettled her, how _young_ Sansa looked. Young and bruised by Joffrey’s godsdamned Kingsguard. Her list was longer tonight.

“We protect her,” Robb said, and Arya rolled her eyes.

“Obviously,” she said. “But _how_? Do we send her to Winterfell?”

Her brothers hesitated, probably running through the same mental calculations she had earlier. They had planned for a Sansa who would be able to help them with strategy—who could coordinate the war the way she had Winterfell’s survival in winter—not a Sansa who trembled to speak of King’s Landing.

Not that Arya wasn’t relieved to have her back either way (actually, that this was a younger, helpless Sansa made her all the _more_ relieved to have stolen her from the Lannisters’ grip), but it did make things harder.

“She’s still Sansa,” Jon said eventually. “Maybe she doesn’t remember her ‘lessons’ from Littlefinger—” he put all the venom into the name that it deserved “—but she’s the same person, with the same mind for strategy.”

Robb nodded. “And she still knows more about the state of things in King’s Landing than anyone else we have.”

“So we keep her with us,” Arya said, and her brothers hesitated once more—likely for the same reason she did. “In an army camp, in the middle of a war that we’ve already lost once.”

“We can protect her,” Robb said, but it was weak.

They fell into silence, conflicted. Arya, for her part, waged an internal battle. She wanted Sansa _safe_ , tucked away in the North, secure behind Winterfell’s walls with Mother, Bran, and Rickon. There would be no betrayal this time, no Ironborn to sack the castle and put anyone to the sword. She wanted Sansa where no one could even think of touching her, of forcing her into the icy mask she’d worn in the future.

On the other hand…they _needed_ Sansa. As she’d just said, Robb had already lost this war once. And that he’d avoided marrying and breaking his word to the Freys didn’t reduce the risk of betrayal from the Boltons, nor the threat the Lannister army posed. Sansa was clever in a way different from the rest of them, strong where they were weak: in thinking far ahead. In the future, she’d been ten steps ahead of every enemy. It had saved countless lives.

But how much of that had been because of what Littlefinger, the bastard, taught her? How much had been what she’d suffered in that mysterious stretch between leaving King’s Landing and joining Jon at the Wall?

Finally, Robb spoke. “She might not _want_ to stay, you know. She’ll want to see home.”

Not untrue—and it made it easier, didn’t it?

“Then we ask her,” she said. “If she wants to stay, she will, and we’ll seek whatever help she can give.”

“And if she wants to go home, she goes home,” Jon agreed.

Robb nodded, but didn’t speak. His eyes were far away, like they sometimes went. She didn’t know where his mind wandered—her own often lingered on that night at the Twins—but it always chilled her to see him so distant.

“It will be harder without her,” she said, more to draw him out of it than because it needed to be said, “but we’ve managed this far.”

“Either way,” Jon said, “we’ll protect her.”

“And either way,” Robb added, face dark, “this time I’ll give her Joffrey’s head.”

On that, they all agreed.


End file.
